Can't Help Falling In Love
by RobertDowneyJrLove
Summary: Steve and Natasha share some awful beer and an old Elvis record. It starts out sweet and fluffy but it gets a bit sad. You've been warned.


He hears her when she comes in.

The click of the lock when she picks it - he's given her a key, but she insists on picking the lock - and the sound of her shoes shuffling on the carpeted entryway. She stops there after every mission, and takes a deep breath, allowing herself to relish in the rich fragrance of dark coffee and spicy cologne. He knows that the reek of decay and fire and ash follow her home from every mission and she needs a minute to breathe in air that isn't as rancid as the person she was sent to eliminate.

"Steve?"

The living room is dimly lit, only a lamp throwing oddly shaped shadows on the wall, and a puddle of the orange light on the floor near his feet. He's shifting the hard sleeve that his records come in, in his hands, palming the edges and spinning it deftly.

"Hey Tasha." his smile is warm and bright.

"Hey." she leans against the doorway of his living room and lifts the six pack of horrible Russian beer up so that he can see. "It's probably horrible but it's Russian so the alcohol content is probably illegal in this country."

"I thought you Russians preferred vodka?" Steve deadpans.

"Beer's the healthy alternative." Natasha shrugs, sticking her hand in the pocket of her jeans.

His laughter follows him into the kitchen where he digs around until he finds the bottle opener and reappears, haloed by the white fluorescence of his kitchen light. She plucks two green bottles out of their cardboard cradles and meets him halfway. He takes them both, easily popping the top off, and handing one back to her. Glass clinks together in a toast of friendship, of preferring each other's company, in all of its Elvis accompanied glory, to the whole of S.H.I.E.L.D and the constant stream of questions.

A long pull from the bottle reveals a much stronger beer that is a little more bitter than he would have preferred. "Nat," he rasps, looking at the label in disgust, only to find himself unable to translate the foreign language. "Where the hell do you get this stuff?"

"I have my secrets."

Oh, that coy grin - he knows it well, it's when she doesn't feel like divulging much information about one thing or another. Hell, finding out her real name was Natalia had almost required an act of Congress, the CIA, and a length of rope, with which to tie her down. He just swallows more of his beer, even if he doesn't necessarily enjoy it - _shit, _the stuff tastes like a hospital - allowing her, her secrets. Heaven knows, he'd kept plenty from her.

It takes her a couple of beers, and the same amount of song changes to realize that he must have gotten a new record, because she doesn't recognize any of the words. "New record?" her head tilts toward the record player in the corner.

"Yeah."

He leans down to pick up the cover from the coffee table, holding it up, allowing her to see a photo of Elvis but the words remain obscured by the darkness. Neither of them have bothered to turn on the lights. She's afraid of being seen and he's long since learned to appreciate the solitude of darkness, since she came into his life. He drops the sleeve on the coffee table, sets his beer on a coaster, and reaches for her. Her glock presses against his hip, a hard reminder of how truly dangerous she is, but he still wraps his arms around her, holding her tight. Her arms snake around him, fisting his t-shirt, and nuzzling into his chest. She's soft and warm, while he burns hot, like a furnace, and neither of them can leave the other's heat.

The alcohol softens everything, loosens inhibitions, and blurs the sharp lines that neither of them are willing to admit they want to erase. He's not one to admit it, but he's always sort of believed in love at first sight, and from the moment he met Natasha, his future had laid itself out in stone and she was definitely a factor. A huge one. But, he had to get over that friendship line, and he had a feeling, it would take more than a couple of terrible beers between them for that to happen.

"What song is this?" her question is muffled by soft blue cotton.

"Can't Help Falling In Love With You." Steve presses a smile into the top of her head, swaying them gently to the tender melody. "I found it yesterday at an old record store a couple blocks away. You like it?"

"'s different."

"I like it," another kiss into her hair, before his voice picks up the lyrics. "Like a river flows surely to the sea..."

It's soft and soothing, his voice, lulls her into a relaxed state, washes away the tension of Fury's last assignment. It doesn't matter that there's more red on her ledger because here, now, with him and his voice crooning along with an Elvis song, she just doesn't care anymore. He's one of the few people who can make her feel this way, make her feel like it is okay to get caught up in a moment, to live in the now instead of being half a dozen steps ahead of everyone.

_"Shall I stay?" _

His fingers hook under her chin, tilting her head up to face him. She's there. All he has to do is lean down a little bit, and he could do what he's wanted to for months now. He could find out for himself what her plump lips feel like, how she tastes, if she wants this as bad as he does. All of his questions would be answered.

_"Would it be a sin?" _

But, there are questions that can't be answered, like is it okay? Can two agents of SHIELD successfully maintain a relationship? Can this happen without backlash from Fury and Coulson and the board of directors, who kept themselves up Fury's ass? Maybe he shouldn't but, _oh_, how he wants too.

_"If I can't help falling in love..." _

He inclines his head toward hers, eyes flickering between her half-lidded pools of sparkling jade, and the pillowy softness of her lips. He can taste the beer on her breath, hear how it catches in her throat when his lips just brush hers, and feel how easily she molds herself against him, licking into his mouth eagerly. His arms tighten around her, hands curling into her lower back, and his entire body nudging against hers. He nips at her bottom lip, incoherent noises getting swallowed in a kiss that's been far too long in the making. It feels _so _damn good. It feels like relief and pleasure and a spark of pain where her glock pushes against his leg. It's all beer and lips and soft warmth and tension snapping like piano wire.

And, it just _is. _

Elvis croons on around them.

_"...you." _

.

The stirring of consciousness seeps into his dream, blurring the edges, pulling at them until he can feel the dream slipping out from under him. The warmth of her body is leaving, her glock isn't rubbing against his leg, and the swollen lips he'd been providing with his undividing attention were no longer there. Green eyes shifting, blurring, fading. Cayenne hair curling against cheekbones and pale hands carding through the fiery spirals. She blurs, fades, further and further away. An abstract of his subconscious, at this point. He can barely see her, all he sees is the white light where she should have been, where she should be, right now, but isn't. He hears Elvis, still singing in the background.

And, a voice.

Hers, his own, he doesn't know.

Can't tell. All he can tell is that it's a voice.

"Steve! Wake up!"

His shoulder is nudged roughly, interrupting what's left of his dream. Salt burns in his eyes, and the rest of the visage, the rest of the world he's created for himself, vanishes in a hazy smudge of color and the sweet song of true love from a record player. The lyrics mock him with words he never said, words she never heard, and damn it, it hurts. But the voice is still there and the brightness of consciousness still calls him, despite his desperation to fight it, to keep himself locked away in a memory.

"Steve, wake up!"

"Nat?" his blue eyes blink open, blearily staring at the fuzzy image of whoever is sitting on the side of his bed. "Natasha?"

"No, man." Sam Wilson's care-worn and weary face comes into view. "It's just me."

"Oh." he sits up heavily, scrubbing his eyes with his hands. "Mornin' Sam."

A warm mug is pressed into his palm - hot, strong coffee, fresh from the carafe. If he notices Sam watching him when he takes a cautious sip, he says nothing, because it won't do any good. Sam Wilson has become his unofficial guardian since the derailment of his best friend, Bucky. It wasn't so much that he was protective of the man, but since Captain America had become his partner in saving the damn world, Sam wasn't taking any chances.

"Coulson called." thankfully, he doesn't mention Steve calling him Natasha. "He wants to meet with you. Thinks you could be crucial in the reconstruction of SHIELD."

"I can't, Sam." Steve shakes his head, "Not today."

"Steve - "

"Coulson can wait." he insists, fingers tightening around the mug until his knuckles are white.

"How many?" Sam inquires gently - well as gently as someone who went by the name of a predatory bird in his free time could.

Steve rakes his hand through his hair, eyes closing as he releases a breath, and barely manages to answer the question. "Three in the last two days."

"All the same?" Sam asks, even though he knows the answer.

Steve nods, setting his coffee on his nightstand, and settling back against his headboard. He fixes Sam with a glare that speaks of his unwillingness to talk about it. He's just not ready, yet. He's not sure he'll ever be ready to tell Sam about that night. The one that still haunts his dreams. The one that stays with him, even when she hadn't. Even when she had gone to Russia to bring down a group of Russian extremists, who were assassinating Ukrainian officials.

Even when - no. He can't say it.

He won't say it.

If he says it, then it's real and he can't deal with that reality right now. Not today. It's too soon. Even though it's been a month, and he should be able to talk about it by now. He just can't. He's never been able to compartmentalize his feelings the way some people do. He couldn't hide his betrayal when the Winter Soldier's identity emerged as that of his former best friend, brainwashed and controlled by the dragon that was Hydra. And, he can't hide the fact that he's still grieving.

"I'll call Coulson. Tell him you're busy, today." Sam offers, standing up.

"Thanks, Sam."

"No problem, kid." Sam allows himself a half-smile before he leaves the room.

Steve waits until he hears Sam's voice on the phone with Coulson before getting out of bed. He pulls on a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, combs a hand through his hair, and makes his way to the bathroom to get rid of his morning breath. It's become a routine of sorts, since - well, since everything. When he's done, he grabs his coffee and pads into the living room. Sam is working on his laptop, a spread of folders and paper covering the coffee table.

"Don't you have a meeting?" Steve rasps, leaning against the doorway like he had seen Natasha do so many times.

"Not until noon."

"I think I'm going to go visit her - um - her..." he trails off unable to finish, sighing heavily. He watches Sam type for a few minutes before posing his question. "You want to come with me or are you busy?"

"I have to finish this for Coulson and then I have that meeting." Sam balances his computer precariously atop a stack of folders. "You go. We'll meet for lunch somewhere."

"Okay."

.

The cemetary is empty, nothing but the whispering song of a dainty little finch to greet him when he pushes through the wrought-iron gates. He wipes his hands on his jeans, but whether it's to wipe away to the flecks of paint that had rubbed off on them, or the sweat that pooled in his palm, he doesn't know. He weaves through a half-circle of headstones in the pie-shaped yard, before finding the one he's looking for. It is unmarked, except for her name, a simple _Natasha _carved into polished stone in crisp, sharp font and when he kneels down in front of it, it is habit that has him reaching forward to trace his fingers over the letters.

"Hey," his voice is shaky; grief rattling his nerves. He knows what he wants to say, but saying it might prove to be his biggest challenge. "You know, I thought I'd have to be a fool to fall in love again, after Peggy - after losing her like I did, but you changed my mind. I struggled to adapt to this century, to be young in a world where I'm supposed to be ninety-six. I suppose I would have eventually," he offers a half-hearted shrug, not really believing that. "But, I still appreciated your help. I'm telling you this now because I never had a chance when you were - when - I just never had a chance."

It's a little more felt than remembered, but the way she had been in helping him adjust, in talking to him not like a man-out-of-time but like a friend. Treating him with the same respect she treated all of the other Avengers. Calling him Steve instead of Rogers, or Captain. Pressing slips of paper into his palm; names of songs to listen to or movies to watch scrawled in her loopy handwriting. And, he had - he had listened to every song, watched every movie, and memorized every lyric, every word.

Just for her.

It had made him feel like he belonged far more than anyone else's attempts had. It had made him feel like he wasn't too far behind, that he couldn't catch up. He never felt like he properly thanked her for making him feel that way.

"And, I'm sorry that," he releases a heavy breath. "I'm sorry that one dance in my apartment to an old Elvis record is all we ever got. I'm sorry for the words I never got to say - " tears sting his eyes, because he wants so badly to see here there in front of him. He wants to tell her what he should have said that night, before everything was shot to hell. "For the words you never got to hear. I'm sorry power was abused and too many strings were pulled. I'm sorry Coulson couldn't pull you out in time."

_I'm sorry. I love you. _

Steve doesn't know how many times he's played those words back in his head, repeating them like a broken record. Apologizing for something beyond on his control, proclaiming his love to the projection in his subconscious because she's not real anymore.

"I love you. I'm just sorry I never told you. When Sam came to my apartment that morning, I knew something was wrong. I knew - I knew, Natasha." he wipes the tears from his eyes, fighting to keep talking, to keep from breaking down. "We'd never see a future together like I wanted. I knew I'd never be able to tell you what I wanted too that night we danced, drunk." he laughs, looking down at his wringing hands. "Remember that night? We were both drunk on that awful Russian beer, you liked. The night an Elvis song said everything I couldn't. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

He slumps forward, vibrating with grief, soaking his face and his hands with tears.

He can't do this.

It's too much.

The memories play, like a film in a projector; scenes changing with a flash, a grayscale image of what was, silent but vivid. In between scenes, wedged between the memories are flashes of what could have been, the future that never was. And, in the background, that same song still plays; a proclamation of love morphing into bleak mourning.

_"Take my hand, take my whole life too. For I can't help, falling in love with you."_

* * *

><p><strong>I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Leave me some love (or some tears, whichever), Dolls. <strong>

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**


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